Choked

by Tania Carver

  Mickey shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. Why rip a dog apart, leave it for dead, then put it out of its misery?’

  Jane stood up. ‘Beats me. But if it’s just one person who’s done all this, we’ve got a maniac on the loose.’

  ‘A very strong maniac.’

  ‘Right.’

  Mickey straightened up. ‘Thanks, Jane. Carry on.’

  He made to leave the tent. Jane placed a hand on his arm, stopped him. ‘Any news?’

  He knew what she was talking about. ‘Phoned the hospital before I came here. Said he’d had a good night. He’s stable. Wouldn’t tell me anything more.’

  Jane sighed. ‘What they told me. We’ve been playing this game a long time. Don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one.’

  ‘No,’ said Mickey. ‘Not so much fun being on the other side for once, is it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Body’s in the next tent. Good luck.’

  Mickey stepped back into the fog. Not thinking about Phil or Anni. Just concentrating on the job in hand.

  Going to inspect the body.

  52

  The two laptops lay side by side. Perfectly squared off. Different makes, models, but both holding secrets waiting to be uncovered.

  Michael Sloane stared down at them. Smiled. He loved the precision of their placing, the symmetry they created. Two rectangular puzzle pieces just waiting to be unlocked. They held full specifics of the operation against him: intercepted and recorded conversations, dealings he didn’t want made public, methods of permanently dealing with opponents. Not to mention all their plans of revenge in full detail.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Worth dying for. Obviously.’

  He turned. The Golem was standing behind him. To attention, face as impassive as ever, an automaton waiting for a command. But Sloane sensed there was something more to him. It seemed like his mind wasn’t there. He moved towards him. ‘Why are you standing there?’

  The Golem’s gaze seemed to be far away. At Sloane’s words, his eyes returned to the world. Like a reconnaissance craft that had been charting the outer reaches of infinite space.

  ‘You’re back with us,’ said Sloane. ‘Good.’

  ‘Sorry?’ The Golem’s voice was quiet, quizzical. Not, as Sloane had noted before, the expected voice of a killer.

  ‘Why are you standing there? Here, in this room? You should be in bed. Hospitalised.’

  ‘I … ’ the eyes were phasing out once more, ‘am strong. Mind over matter. We feel pain … only if we allow ourselves to be hurt by it.’

  ‘Right.’ Drugs, thought Sloane. Has to be. ‘You got the laptop. Good. And Watts is out of the way. But you let the rest of them escape.’

  ‘I … yes. It is embarrassment to me.’

  ‘It’s more than that. It’s dangerous. And not just for you. For me as well. You’ve left far too many loose ends.’

  ‘I … apologise.’

  ‘You’ll have to do more than that. You’ll have to make it right.’ He looked the Golem up and down. His side, his arms were bandaged. He wore a loose shirt to cover them. He looked pale. Or rather, thought Sloane, a lighter shade of grey. ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Good. But what happened yesterday could be very damaging to me. Permanently damaging, even. And I’m not prepared to allow that to happen. Not after everything I’ve done. So I need that damage limited. Stopped. And I have to know, are you capable of doing it? Today, now, in the state you’re in?’

  The Golem looked Sloane directly in the eyes. He was back, focused. No doubt about it. To look in the Golem’s eyes was to stare death in the face. Sloane blinked. Swallowed hard.

  ‘I can do it. Today. I am in perfect state.’ He moved forward. Sloane took a step back. ‘I feel no pain. I am … super man.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s … let’s crack on.’

  ‘Also … ’ The Golem moved, wouldn’t let him get away.

  Sloane waited.

  ‘Also I need to redeem myself.’

  ‘Redeem?’

  ‘I am professional. I allowed … error of judgement. I considered all alarm systems except one. I did not consider dogs. It was sloppy. I need to redeem.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I will redeem.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  Sloane returned his attention to the two laptops. ‘We need to know where she’s gone. And him, whatever he’s calling himself now. And the kid. I can’t see her getting rid of either of them. They’re her insurance. She still thinks she can win with them. How wrong she is.’

  He sat down at the desk. ‘We need to find her. Hopefully one of these should give us a clue as to where they are. We also need to know if she’s still in contact with the psychologist and what we can do about that.’ He sighed. ‘I should have got rid of her when I had the chance,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else. ‘Too soft, that’s my trouble.’

  Dee chose that moment to enter the room. Sloane looked round at her. She was dressed in a clinging black velour leisure suit, trainers. Hair tied back. No make-up. There was no trace of the provocatively sexual being of the previous day. She was all business now.

  ‘Nice of you to drop by.’

  ‘I’ve been working out.’ She crossed the floor towards him. Didn’t even give the Golem a second look.

  Sloane smiled to himself. He never knew where he was with her. He couldn’t predict how she would behave from one second to the next, what sort of mood she would be in, what would come out of her mouth or even what she would be wearing. Those capricious mood-swings had been very entertaining in the past. Exciting. And dangerous too. But he liked that about her. No. He loved that about her. His special switch bitch …

  ‘I’m just briefing our friend, darling,’ he said.

  She stared at him.

  ‘Damage limitation. Before it’s too late.’

  Her reply was cut off by the phone ringing. Neither of them made a move to answer it.

  ‘Probably the police again,’ said Sloane. ‘They called round last night. We’ll just pretend we’re not in again.’

  No response from Dee.

  ‘I’ve briefed the house slave. They won’t get through.’

  Nothing.

  Sloane looked between the Golem and Dee. Tried to work out which one was the more impassive. Couldn’t decide.

  The house slave entered clutching a handset, her hand over the mouthpiece. Sloane looked at her. ‘You know we’re not to be disturbed,’ he said, voice low. ‘I left you strict instructions. Do you enjoy your punishments?’

  She trembled. Passed the phone over. ‘I think … think you need to answer, sir.’ Bowed her head. Stood there as if awaiting a blow.

  He took the phone, quelled the anger rising within him. Spoke. ‘Sloane.’

  ‘Hello, Michael.’

  It took him a few seconds before he recognised the voice. Then he understood why the house slave had been insistent. She had avoided her punishment. Unless she still wanted it, of course.

  ‘Hello, Helen,’ he said. ‘A pleasant surprise.’

  At the mention of the name, Dee’s head swung round, eyes burning into him, as if she could see the woman on the other end of the phone. She knew who it was.

  ‘Jeff’s dead,’ said Helen Hibbert.

  ‘So I heard,’ said Sloane. ‘My condolences.’

  ‘You know why I’m calling. I have to see you. I’m coming round.’

  Sloane mustered a smile. ‘Of course, Helen. Always a pleasure.’

  The phone went dead. He handed it back to the house slave, who left the room. Dee was still staring at him.

  ‘Let’s hope,’ he said, ‘that it’s not too late for all this damage limitation.’

  The other two said nothing.

  53

  The fog was lifting. Not nearly enough for the sun to appear, but just enough for Mickey to make out the tall, cadaverous shape of pathologist Nick Lines sta
nding ahead of him by the second tent. He looked like a ghost, or the Grim Reaper, ready to carry dead souls over to the afterlife. He beckoned to Mickey, entered the tent. Mickey couldn’t shake the feeling that by following Lines, he was stepping out of one world and into another.

  And in a sense he was. Phil Brennan, after a few too many beers, had once explained it to him.

  ‘The ordinary world,’ he had said, ‘the normal, everyday world, the nine-to-five, alarm clock, EastEnders of an evening and dinner out on a Saturday world, is the one that most people inhabit. But that’s not for us, Mickey. Not for us.’

  Mickey had listened, thinking that if nothing else, he’d have a good story to tell the rest of the team the next morning about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk.

  ‘We stand on the threshold,’ Phil had continued. ‘We’re the gatekeepers to the other world. Where the dead live, the raped, the mutilated … the abandoned. The blind, the voiceless. The real world doesn’t want to know, Mickey. They don’t want to be reminded that it exists. Because if they knew, if they really, really knew what it was like … they wouldn’t be able to get up the next morning.’

  Mickey had listened. Nodded.

  ‘And it’s our job – you, me, Anni, the rest of the team … our job to make sure the two worlds never collide. Or hardly ever. And we do that … you know how we do that?’

  Mickey had said he didn’t.

  ‘We do that by giving a voice to the voiceless. By speaking up for them. The murdered, the raped, the mutilated. The victims. We give them a voice. We find who did this to them.’ He had taken another drink. Found his glass empty. ‘MIS. Major Incidents. Doesn’t begin to cover it. We’re the gatekeepers, Mickey. All that stands between one world and the next. Never forget that, Mickey. Never forget that.’

  And Mickey hadn’t. He hadn’t gone into work the next day and made jokes about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk. He had gone on his next case – a double murder of teenage twin girls – remembering Phil’s words. Acting on them. When he finally amassed enough evidence against their killer – their father – and charged him, leading to a successful conviction, those words had come back to him. And there was nothing funny or ridiculous about them. Just an honest job description of what he did.

  So when he stepped across the threshold of the white tent, he was prepared for what awaited him. Nick Lines was already there, staring down at the sight before him.

  ‘There,’ Lines said, accompanied by a quick wrist-flick gesture, in case Mickey was in any doubt as to what he was referring. ‘Down there.’

  Mickey looked. It had once been a man. And his death hadn’t been easy. His face was swollen, dark. His eyes wide and staring, dotted and streaked with leaked blood from burst capillaries.

  ‘Cerebral hypoxia,’ said Nick Lines.

  ‘You mean he was strangled. Choked.’

  Lines didn’t answer. He wasn’t given to wasting time on unnecessary words. His dismissive manner and haughty attitude always made Mickey feel inferior. He was fairly sure it was a pose the pathologist had worked up, a mask he had initially worn to hide his own all-too-human reactions to his work. But like most masks worn for any length of time, instead of hiding the wearer, the wearer had grown into it.

  Nick Lines was kneeling down, studying the corpse.

  ‘Contusions to the neck … major bruising either side of the trachea … abrasions, scratches from fingernails … ’ He looked up at Mickey. ‘I’d say you’re looking for a very strong man with very large hands.’

  ‘Large hands?’

  ‘He was strangled with only one hand. With quite a wide span. He got both carotid arteries. If the lack of oxygen didn’t kill our boy, the cardiac arrest would have.’ He straightened up. ‘So he’s got at least one large hand. Although in my experience, I’ve found this sort generally carry two.’

  ‘Not always.’ If it wasn’t Nick’s erudition that made Mickey feel inferior, his attempts at humour always made him defensive.

  ‘True. Although I think in this case we can assume that.’ He glanced round at the ground covered by the tent. Forensics had made a thorough examination of it. ‘There was a fight here. One on one. And by the way blows were traded, it’s clear that both participants had two arms. Although … ’ He knelt down once more. Pointed to an area of earth that had been heavily sampled. ‘Blood in the soil. Been taken for analysis. Shame. Nitrogen, calcium and phosphorous. Very good fertiliser. If they’d left it, they’d have lovely cauliflowers.’

  Mickey said nothing. He could find no words with which to reply to that. Instead he said, ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Hard to say without a full post-mortem. But given the rate of lividity and the weather conditions, I’d say within twenty-four hours. Possibly less.’

  ‘Thanks. Any idea who he was? Why he was here?’

  Nick Lines didn’t even look at him as he spoke. ‘I just do the biology. Metaphysics is your job.’

  ‘Thanks, Nick.’

  ‘Any time.’ Nick Lines straightened up, the remains of a playful smile fading from his lips. ‘I will say one thing. It’s the same chap who did those two dogs over there. No doubt about that. Same degree of strength, same area of the body attacked. The throat. The neck. Such a small, weak area for such an important job.’

  ‘Does that tell us anything about him?’

  Nick Lines shrugged. ‘Well if you wanted me to do your job for you, I’d tell you that he had done this before. Or is probably a professional, given that he knew what to go for and where to target.’

  ‘A hit man?’

  Lines shook his head. ‘Sorry. You’ve run out of questions. You’ll have to find your answers elsewhere.’

  Mickey prepared to leave. With his opinion of Nick Lines unchanged and relieved to be leaving the man behind.

  Before he could go, Lines stopped him. He looked straight at Mickey. Addressed him directly. ‘How is he?’

  Mickey knew who he was talking about.

  ‘No change, last I heard. I’m sure they’ll let us know when there’s some news.’

  Nick Lines nodded. Sighed. ‘Always difficult when it’s one of our own, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘It is.’

  It was the first time he had felt he was on the same side as Nick Lines.

  54

  Tyrell opened his eyes and found he wasn’t where he had expected to be.

  No grey walls, no barred windows. No thin sheet over the top of him. Nothing familiar, nothing safe. Just light all around. Cramp growing like plant roots within him.

  He tried to uncoil himself, straighten, sit up. His back screamed out as he did so, fighting to stop him. He lay back down again. Looked round. Tried to orient himself. His neck hurt. He saw daylight through windows. Trees. Mist. Felt the fog in his bones, the cold, his muscles cramped and seized. Then he remembered.

  The car. They had slept in the car.

  If it could be called sleeping. He had passed out with a combination of anxiety and exhaustion and didn’t feel rested. He began to remember why they had ended up where they were.

  They had left the house and caravan, the woman driving, him in the passenger seat and the little girl in the back. She had been crying, screaming. He didn’t blame her. They had watched as a huge grey giant of a man had appeared, fought off the dogs and killed them in as bloody a manner as possible. Then moved on to the house, where he had strangled Jiminy Cricket.

  They hadn’t waited for him to get to them.

  Jumping into the boxy silver car, they had driven away, as fast and as far as they could manage, until they ran out of adrenalin and road. He had tried to calm the little girl, tell her that everything was going to be all right and that she shouldn’t get so upset. The woman had told him not to be so soft. Told him to shut up and stop telling the kid lies. He had felt like screaming and crying then.

  He tried to sit up again. Slower this time, working with his back not fighting it. Managed to get him
self into a sitting position. He looked into the back of the car. Josephina was sitting there, eyes wide in terror, too scared to move, her hands clamped hard between her legs.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.

  ‘Wee … need wee-wee … ’

  He looked round again. The woman was sitting in the driving seat. Head back, eyes closed, mouth open. Asleep.

  ‘Come on then … ’

  He opened the car door, began to uncurl his body. Josephina opened the back one, got out. Looked at him to see what she should do next.

  ‘Go on, over there in those trees,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting here for you.’

  She did as he said, hurrying away.

  ‘Aw, how sweet.’

  He turned. The woman was out of the car and standing next to him. She looked terrible. Her make-up had rubbed away, leaving a face that looked like a patchwork quilt. Red and pitted in parts, smooth in others. It looked like it had been assembled from different pieces, none of which quite matched. The markings continued down her neck and on to her body, where they were hidden by her clothes. As he watched, she put her hand to her head, adjusted her hair. Tyrell noticed how shiny and plastic it was. Then he realised. She was wearing a wig.

  ‘She’s upset,’ he said. ‘She’s had a bad shock. She shouldn’t be here.’

  The woman gave a contemptuous snort. Looked round. ‘None of us should be here.’

  He saw Josephina from the corner of his eye as she approached them. She spotted the woman and stopped walking, not wanting to come any further.

  ‘Get her over here,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t want her running off. That’s all we need.’

  Tyrell turned to the child, attempted a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Josephina,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.’

  Wary, Josephina made her way forward. Tyrell kept his hand outstretched. She came towards him, took it. He held on to her.

  ‘Lady … ’ said Josephina, looking round.

  Tyrell glanced at the woman, then back to the child. ‘I’ll keep the lady away from you. Don’t worry.’